


saw, loved, sought

by tosca1390



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times their past lives missed their chance (and one to live on).</p>
            </blockquote>





	saw, loved, sought

**Author's Note:**

> Things of note: the names weren't randomly chosen. If you want thoughts on that, ookkkayyy. The lines at the top of each section are from the Endymion and Selene myth by Edith Hamilton. Also, the first section is a retelling of the Endymion and Selene myth itself. The rest: Ancient Rome; the Third Crusades (Richard the Lion-Hearted); the Renaissance (1520's, if you want to be precise); and Puritan Massachusetts.

*

 

_her passion brings her only a burden of pain, fraught with many sighs_

 

Endymion is near sleep in the fields when she lets slip her touch against his cheek. He stirs, but is too close to sleep to resist. 

Amid dozing sheep and damp grass, Selene sits near him, just watching. Her skirts billow around her like wind and water, a quiet reminder of kingdoms past and lives yet to be walked through. There is the temptation to wake him, to ask the question – _would you stay? Would you be ageless? Would you give up a millennium of lifetimes in which we may never meet?_ – but she remains silent and watchful.

There is a longing in him yet, for something more than fields and sheep and perhaps war. She senses it just as she feels the pull of the tides, the chill of the night sky, the yearning gazes of lovers under her light. She feels for all of them and for herself. It is too cold for her alone. 

“Not yet,” she says softly, touching the fall of dark hair across his brow. “We are not meant for each other yet.”

Soon, she will release, will give herself back to the tides of life and souls, to be reincarnated at the will of the gods. Soon, he will go to war and perish, surely. Soon, they will begin to cross and intersect, their eyes catching through crowds, hands brushing, trips and falls – there are futures ahead of them both, past shepherd and sometime goddess. 

There are more substantial moments to be had than an eternity of sleep and ageless beauty. 

Selene, or whatever part of Selene she knows of herself, beyond the goddess and beyond the star deep in her heart, leans over and kisses him, just lightly, just too brief. There is muscle memory there, spirits of kingdoms and centuries long past on her tongue. Endymion sighs and turns in his sleep. Earth is quiet around them, the birds sleeping in the darkness, the wind soft in her ears. 

“Find me,” she whispers in his ear as the dawn approaches, and the moon pulls at her skirts. “Find me.”

He will wake, and remember little. But perhaps, her words have tattooed into his heart. It is all she can hope for, with all the power at her disposal.

*

 

_and great is the beauty that arises from her shining light_

 

Antony’s villa is loud and full of light and people, soldiers and senators and merchants and wives alike. 

Silvius lingers in the shaded courtyards, amid the trees and dirt – so rare to find in a city such as Rome, now – and breathes. He looks up into the clear evening sky, eyes tracing the crescent moon. He prefers the space and the fresh air, rather than the wine-soaked inside. Antony is his commander, his brother-in-arms, or else Silvius would rather disregard the invitations, as he does so many others. 

There is very little that he cares of the patricians and the plebians, the classes and the competitions for power and glory in a political arena. The secret dealings and betrayals of the streets and halls of Rome are of no interest to him, truly. He is a patrician born, Silvius Cornelius, son of Drusus and Rhea, but he is solider found and bred. He feels best in armor, a sword at his hip and a bow stretched across his back. 

His mother longs to make a marriage for him. His father pushes for a position in the Senate. He wants nothing of either path; there are lands still to discover, claims for Rome to make. He wants nothing of politics, and he has no need for a foolish wife who would be as adulterous as all the rest. Rome the city-state is worthless to him; Rome the empire is all he fights for, he and his brothers-in-arms. 

There is a burst of laughter from inside the villa, melting between the pipes and strings plucked, the sounds of bells. Every breath is full of the stickiness and wretched smells of the city, and he feels as if he will not take a true breath until he is back in the wilderness. 

“Oh – oh!”

He glances behind him, and stills. 

A girl – a _woman_ stands before him, under a flowering tree of white blossoms and deep green leaves. Her gown is an ivory, threaded with gold, the same gold as her hair that falls in curls at her throat and shoulders, pinned up at the temples. Even in the darkness he can see the bright blue of her gaze. She is beautiful, almost too much so – for the first time, something clenches deep in his heart, something like longing, like familiarity. 

“I had thought to be alone,” she says at last, moving out of the shadows of the tree. In the moonlight her skin is nearly silvery-pale. “I did not mean to disturb.”

He swallows, and bows his head. “My lady, I am certain it is I who disturbs you.”

“Perhaps we disturb each other. That does not mean it unwelcome,” she says with a smile. 

Silvius runs a nervous hand through his dark hair. There is a strange tattoo beating in his heart, familiarity thick on his tongue. “Do I know you, my lady?” he asks at last. 

Her eyes, soft and wide, fix on him. The curve of her mouth deepens. “I – I think not. And yet – “

She takes another step towards him. Now she is near close enough to touch. His toga feels belted too tightly, his skin very warm. Fingers curling with the itch to touch her bare wrist, her arm, he leans forward. “And yet – “

There is a sharp flood of light from inside as the door open to the courtyard. It is a senator or two, women on all arms, stumbling with cups of wine and plates of cheese and fruit into their space. He watches her as she flushes, her eyes fixed on one with silvery-grey hair and a cruel mouth. 

“You will pardon me, sir,” she says at last, voice cool and unnaturally stiff. 

Silvius bows his head once more. She turns and walks with purpose towards the laughing, sodden group. There are sharp words thrown at her, _prude_ and _vestal_ – and then, she disappears into the villa, head held high. He is left alone in the shadows of the trees and moonlight, to wonder.

Later, as he prepares for another campaign under Antony, he learns who she is. Renita Aemilia, daughter of those who can trace their ancestry all the way back to Romulus and Remus themselves – married to a senator of no consequence but his wealth, and his penchant for loose women and wine. She is above reproach, though, and is well-respected by all except her husband.

Silvius takes a moment to taste the name on his tongue. Renita, he thinks, and thinks again that it isn’t quite right. 

He never sees her again, to tell her so. The Rome he knows falls apart with the death of Caesar; so does he.

*

 

_he never woke to see the shining silvery form bending over him_

 

Summer is too hot and too thick on Cyprus for anything but thin linens, but they speak of her, the girl with the silver-blonde hair, who wears it down no matter what the season. Her skin never tans, her eyes too blue and pale for the native soil. She is born of Cyprus and yet not, obviously. She has no father, and they say her mother is a witch, who brought the English (they call themselves English, whatever that means, truly) with her curses and spells. 

This girl, this girl with hair like silver silk, pays them all no mind. When the knights come, and settle on Cyprus to keep it as their base for their Holy Crusades, she treats them just as she treats the native villagers. She has a talent for healing, this girl – she wields it well and has a gentle touch. The foreign soldiers bring her to their camp, and she goes willingly. An open heart, too open, the old folk say. 

Still, in skirts of pale blue and white, her hair tumbling down her back like gold water, she walks the miles between her mother’s home at the outskirts of the village to the main encampment, day in and day out. She treats the soliders, she treats the ladies brought by the English Kind – one is to be his wife, they say – and she goes home again, coins in her purse and weariness in her eyes. 

As tired as she is, she will always go. 

There is one soldier she lingers near, some observe. He is a brave knight, his brothers say, as brave as the Lion-Heart; an English lord and heir to his wealthy father who put aside that mantle to follow his king and countrymen on a journey they may not return from. He is the true mark of a man of the earth, and there is something that keeps her gaze. 

He sleeps much of the days, a deep wound in his side threatening infection. She sits by his pallet and treats him with poultices and soothes him with draughts, her pale fingers soft in his dark hair. She whispers to him in a language he does not understand, and his eyes never open. It is a pretty sight, they think, the two of them together; shadows and light, skin to skin. 

Their time together is too brief. She is to marry, to travel to another village on the other side of the island. Their last visit, she kisses his brow and whispers into his ear, whispers words of longing and meetings and _next time_ , near misses. She leaves with tears and a smile, and those who know say she has never looked so beautiful.

When he does wake, he wonders as to where to direct his thanks. No one has the heart to lead him towards certain disappointment and misery. There are battles to fight in the name of the Lord, after all; women come and go. 

*

 

_a youth of surpassing beauty_

 

“Daegan,” the lady Serena murmurs during their fourth sitting. 

“Please, madam. Speaking will ruin the position of the face,” he says, glancing from the canvas to her and back once more. 

He can hear her sigh, hear the rustle of her skirts. “Certainly you have my face sketched by now,” she says playfully. 

Daegan does, but he would not say so. There is very little he trusts himself to say with this lady, as her smile and her eyes leaves him gaping and loose-tongued. Venice already has too much intrigue for his tastes; and he is from England, so he knows much of intrigue already. 

“This is our last sitting, madam. You will not have to sit this still ever again, if you so choose,” he says finally, his Italian still thick with an English accent. A year in Italy, eight months under the tutelage of Titian, and he still has his troubles with the language. 

His gaze flickers back to the lady, to the curve of her mouth. He has his troubles other places, as well. 

“I was only wondering about your name, sir. It is a mouthful. Pray, what does it mean?” she asks in perfect English. 

He sits back and sets his tray of paints and sketching pencils aside. “Perhaps a break, then?”

She laughs, blue eyes too bright in the Venice sunlight. The light catches her well, but he sees her as a creature of the moonlight, truly; there is a shimmer to her skin that only a soft glow could capture with any truth. “If you would like,” she teases. “But I will have an answer.”

Sighing, he stands and stretches, clenching and relaxing his hands as a stretch. The sitting room of her home is splendidly furnished, thick carpets and drapes, rich colors symbolic of the wealth of her and her absent husband, but he cannot help but think her too beautiful for this much finery. Her choice of gown, indeed, is a simple dark blue, lapis he would say, with gold stitching just the shade of her hair. 

“My mother’s father was Welsh. He was a part of the army that helped Henry Tudor come to the throne of England. It is a family name,” he says curtly as he walks to the window. The streets below are busy with vendors and travelers alike. He can see the canals just streets away, full of gondolas. Venice is a city for romance, surely; he has no taste for it, now. 

“What does it mean?” she asks. Her voice is suddenly quite close. 

He turns his head, and there she is at his side. She comes up to his shoulder, barely, and is so bright and warm that he can barely keep his eyes on her. His fingers curl into themselves, to resist the urge to touch her, the pale curve of her collarbone, the full of her lip. 

“Black-haired,” he says quietly. 

Serena smiles, and touches his bare wrist. It’s a warm thrill through his nerves. “Quite on point, your mother.”

“Yes, madam,” he says, glancing at her fingers as they remain curved around him, skin and bones. There is a brittle taste in his mouth, born of too much longing.

“My husband believes this is the height of my beauty. Hence, the portrait. Did he tell you that?” she asks after a moment, turning away from the windows and moving into the midday shadows of the room, near the writing desk he is sure she never uses, not in this room. 

“He did,” he says, mouth curling. The count her husband is one of his least pleasant memories in recent times.

She glances back at him, gold curls falling across the line of her throat. “Do you agree?”

He wets his lips and, despite the sensible warnings of his mind, follows her into the darker corners of the room. “I do not.”

“An artist can find beauty in everything, I imagine,” she says, slightly wistful.

“Madam, you would be beautiful no matter what. It is not just a pretty face that makes a beautiful woman,” he says. 

She smiles then, a true smile; he feels it right in his stomach, a hard clench. “You are quite the gentleman, Daegan.”

“I was raised as one,” he says. Again, he wonders why it sounds discordant to his ear when she says his name, as if it should be something else entirely. It has never felt that way before. 

Leaning against the lip of the desk, she reaches out, lets her hand slide over his forearm. The sleeves of his tunic are rucked up to his elbows, and he feels the bare slip of her skin against his like a brand on his heart. 

“I wonder, sir, if I could press your gentlemanly sensibilities into calling me by my given name,” she says softly, gaze soft on his. 

He swallows hard and takes her hand in his. He thinks of the servants of the household, ready with wagging tongues; he thinks of her husband, cold and calculating; there is her reputation, and his own. There are too many negatives for these brief moments to be more than they already are. 

“Madam, I would not. I could not,” he says quietly. 

She sighs, curling her fingers against his. “I suppose we can content ourselves with this last session, then.”

“We will have to,” he replies, voice very low, and lets go of her hand. He will never forget the look in her eyes as they sit back down, sad yet determined. 

The portrait is a thing of beauty. He cannot stand to look at it, and is all too glad when her husband comes to pick it up at last. Within a week, he leaves Venice. 

Dreams deferred come in many forms, he thinks on his way to Florence. 

*

 

_the cause of their singular fate_

 

The jail cells are cold at night, even in the summer. 

Diana sits, still and silent, and listens. The town is deadly quiet, no sounds of hasty footfalls or cats across the dirt paths. There is no moon tonight; she wonders, perhaps, if that is a sign. 

Tomorrow, she dies. Tonight, she does not have the strength to fight it any longer. There is a sentence over her name and a verdict on her head and a noose at her throat come morning. Not even the limited magic she knows she has in her blood will save her. 

Six others will die with her, and these, these are the deaths she fights. None of the other girls – for they are girls, the youngest sixteen – are of a power with her, and are merely victims of the hysterics of a desperate town. Salem is a thing possessed now, and there is little anyone can do to stop it. 

Still, she will try. 

The hollow echo of footsteps in the corridor startle her from her concentration. She opens her eyes, pushing tangled blond hair shorn short from her face, and blinks. A tall shadow approaches, broad and lean – in the faint dimness, she can just make him out. Her heart leaps. 

“What are you doing here?” she hisses as she leaps out of her chair and towards the bars. Her hands curl around the cold metal. 

Adam comes into view at last, his dark hair matted at his brow. His eyes, too blue and sharp, linger on her. “I paid off Josiah to let me in,” he says, covering his hands with hers as they cling to the bars. She can see the dirt of his farm under the fingernails. There is a burning behind her eyes. 

“You shouldn’t have,” she says softly. 

His eyes search her face, lingering at the shorn edges of her hair, where it hits at her chin. “I had to. How could I not come?” he says, voice so low. It brings back memories of just weeks and months ago, skirting around her mother to meet him in the fields, his mouth on hers as her back pressed against the bark of their favorite tree.

Shaking her head, she leans over and kisses his dirt-streaked knuckles. He tastes of salt and the earth and the spice of the woods – a real man of the earth, her Adam is. “You should _go_ ,” she murmurs, keeping her head bowed over their joined hands. Her heart aches with it, with his. “They’ll find you, they’ll hang you too –“

“I want them to,” he says fiercely, and she shuts her eyes against the tears. “I can’t – I won’t go on.”

“You will,” she breathes, blinking away tears before she raises her gaze to his again. “You will. I want you to. I have sealed my fate.”

He leans in and kisses her through the bars, brief and sad and warm. “There has to be _something_ – something I can do,” he says, nearly desperate. 

Diana wets her lips and nods. “You can. The other girls – they’ve done nothing wrong. Go, and get them out to safety.”

His brow furrows, his mouth thinning. “How? The cells –“

“They’ll be open,” she whispers, and keeps his gaze. There are secrets between them yet, she thinks. 

After a moment, he tightens his grip on her hands and nods. The lines of his sharp face are fierce and determined. “I will. I will,” he says, voice thick.

She shakes her head and kisses him one last time, tasting the salt of him. The tears edge her eyes with no hesitation. “This isn’t the end,” she whispers, as their fingers intertwine for the last. “It is not the last of us, of you and me.”

He kisses her, a bite to her bottom lip, a sharp whisper of her name, and then he lets go, and walks away down the corridor. There are no other words between them; she needs nothing else. 

Slowly, she goes to sit once more, in the light of the cell window where the moon would shine. She has the words of the spirits on her tongue, and she uses them, a last sacrifice for those innocent girls. 

In the morning, she is the only one to hang. She goes to death with a smile.

*

 

_so that she might always find him_

 

The park is full today, busy with children and parents and teenagers alike. The grass is full of those with picnic lunches and napping couples, blankets spread over the lush green. Boats paddle through the lake, against a clear blue sky without a cloud. 

Usagi sits stretched out on a bench underneath a blooming tree, the smell sweet and heavy in her nose. Her head lays pillowed in Mamoru’s lap; one of his hands lingers in the full spread of her heavy hair, as he reads one of his many books. She looks out onto the lake, ears full of the sounds of the city. Everything is still and easy today, a brief respite from battles and meetings and the ever-looming future. But her sleep from the night before lingers, a strange sensation over her skin that she can’t shake. 

“I had a weird dream last night,” she says abruptly. 

She hears him turn a page in his book. His fingers slide against her scalp and she turns into the touch. “What happened?”

Wrinkling her nose, she shifts on the bench. “I’m not totally sure. It was just – it was like I was living a different life, and not in the Silver Millennium. It was – strange,” she murmurs, tracing light patterns on his knees with her fingertips. 

His hand smoothes through her hair, and she feels the reverberation as he sets his book down next to him on the bench. “Well, perhaps it was another past life,” he says quietly.

Looking up at him, she blinks into the tree-dappled sunlight. “Do you think there were a lot of them? That we’ve just been missing each other for millennia?” she asks, suddenly sad and wistful. She feels for each one of them, in every life and time; it’s a cruel fate, she thinks, to not have all that you could. 

Mamoru smiles slightly, his glasses slipping down his nose. His fingers catch at the curve of her jaw. “I think that we have each other now, and that’s what matters to me,” he says, voice low. 

She smiles then, shaking her head. “You really are a sap, Mamo-chan,” she teases, sitting up to kiss him. 

His hand curves to her cheek, the other falling to the small of her back. He kisses her just as he always has and always will, open and warm and wanting, always wanting. She shuts her eyes and curls her fingers in his shirt. 

Whatever the shape of the past, they are here now. She will never take it for granted. 

*


End file.
